


Goodbye Again

by AsheTarasovich (natalieashe), natalieashe



Series: Wolf Tales from the Haven [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Guilt, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/AsheTarasovich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/pseuds/natalieashe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is besotted by the goth boy he turned but knows he should be nowhere near</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye Again

He hates the Haven at night. Long time since it felt like home. Long time since he'd slept under its roof. He has a home, a flat. A wife. He turns his head slightly to look upon the dark head on the pillow beside him. Black hair, long and straight, spilled like a dark stain over the pale blue cotton. The boy's face, relaxed in sleep, is peaceful. Childlike, despite his twenty years. Fuck.

Greg stares at the ceiling again. He has no business being here. Not in this boy's life. Not in his room. Certainly not in his bed. Fuck. He should have stopped at the kiss. Should have walked away. Said thanks, but no thanks. But how? What the fuck do you do when your own personal wet dream - your year long unhealthy obsession - offers himself up like a fucking feast? When you've fought with your new wife for the third time in a week and you want someone - anyone - to tell you the insults are meaningless? And a boy you have no business having feelings for slides down your body with a sinful smile and offers to make it all go away?

Fuck! He rolls onto his side towards the boy. The full pouting lips huff sleepy breaths. Black eye makeup smeared, sticking the ridiculously girlish long lashes together in clumps. He's still fucking gorgeous. His cock stirs when the remembers that mouth on him. Two things his wife never does. Go to bed without removing her make up. Go down on him. Women over thirty-five know better than to do either, she says. God he fucking hates his life.

He looks around the room. This is his alternative? Fucking in a teenager's bedroom? Trying not to feel judged by the myriad of tattooed faces that stare insolently down at the bed from the posters on the walls. Giving marks out of ten for technique, experience and his saggy muscles. Watching critically as his hairy arse bobs with each thrust into the pretty boy less than half his fucking age.

Third time he's woken up here. Third time he's lied to his wife about a case that absolutely needs him. About the twenty-third time he's wondered what the fuck he's doing here and the seventy-third he's wondered why the fuck this beautiful boy wants his cock. They have nothing in common. Nothing to work with. Nothing to build a meaningful relationship on. All they have is the slide of sweat and lube and filthy words panted into a room that seems too innocent for sex despite the tattoos and two-fingered salutes and pierced tongues on the walls.

He's getting hard again. Too much thinking about the sweet sounds the boy makes when he fucks into him. Maybe he should wake him. Make the most of his aging hard on. Not too many more years before he starts to struggle to get it up on demand. The boy teases him about becoming part of the Viagra generation. Little bastard.

Trouble is, he's right. Not about the Viagra - no problems in that area yet, thanks very much - but about being old. Age is a state of mind. And he tries really hard to keep his in a state that says 'I'm still young and daft. I haven't let age turn me into a boring old fart' but the evidence is all around him.

Music that jars his nerves, played loud with air guitars, or pumping beats that make the boy gyrate obscenely on the dancefloors of clubs that Greg should only venture into if he's brandishing his warrant card. Weird looking folk that drift in and out of the boy's life, and talk a different language, or don't bother speaking at all. They stuff their ears with too loud music and fix their eyes on their phones and... Jesus fucking Christ he is old.

He rolls out of bed. Trip to the bathroom, gather his clothes and go. Maybe he should leave some cash? With a note of course. Something that says 'treat yourself' not 'thanks for the sex, I hope this is the going rate'. Fuck. He bends down to pick his pants from the mass of clothing scattered on the floor. When he raises his head the boy is watching him, tilted green eyes glittering wolf.

"Sneaking out?" He asks softly.

"I have to go." He crawls back onto the bed cursing his weakness and kisses the boy's shoulder. His neck. Pushes the boy onto his back and lays over him. Captures his mouth, kisses like he is starving and this is his last meal. He does not want to go. "We have to stop this." Between kisses. "I'm too old for you."

"I don't care. Why does it matter?" The boy struggles beneath him, not to get away but to get the cursed duvet from between them. Insatiable little git.

"It matters. I don't even understand what you're talking about half the time." Most of the time. Musicians, actors, websites, TV shows - a whole world of modern popular culture that has passed him by. That he struggles to relate to. "What are we supposed to talk about when we're not in bed?"

"News, politics, war? Books, weather, experiences? Life, love... What do you talk about with the people you aren't fucking? I'm not some brainless twink. I can hold an adult conversation."

He raises his head to look down at the boy. No. Not a twink. A young man that's seen far too much of the shite side of life already. Deserves better than being a bit on the side for a miserable old git.

He kisses him one last time and rolls away. Snatches up his clothes. Pauses at the door, naked, feeling pathetic. "Find someone your own age Gabriel. This isn't going to work. I'm sorry but I have to go."

 

 


End file.
